


Common Themes

by Spurius



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: 1950s telephones and newspapers, Cyril is not nice, Fred Thursday makes everything better, Gen, Neither is Gwen, Poor Endeavour, Toast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 07:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18338555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spurius/pseuds/Spurius
Summary: Vignettes from the "young" Endeavour timeline, 1938 to 1965. Warnings for sad childhood, bad tea and academic failure.1958/'Didn’t finish, did you?’‘No. I –'‘Didn’t expect you would. Well, you’re not coming back home. Gwen won’t have it. Better get on with it, hadn’t you?’





	Common Themes

1950/The telephone stand was in the hall and he lingered awkwardly in the doorway, watching Mrs. Hoopes winding and stretching the flex until he thought it might give. ‘I am so awfully sorry for your loss. Constance will be missed by all her friends. Oh goodness, no, Mr. Morse, Endeavour has been no trouble at all. I just thought, perhaps, being with his own family? I see. Do you think Mrs. Morse might get around to it sometime this week…?’ Mrs. Hoopes ended the call and put the receiver down slowly. He took a quick step back as she turned around, and stared at his feet, expecting to be scolded for listening. Instead, she gave a barely noticeable sigh. That evening, there were extra heaps of sugar in his tea and her eyes avoided his.

1955/‘Go where?’ His father looked at him sharply, both of his eyebrows raised. Endeavour felt his own shoulders drop. The idea now seemed preposterous, here, in their kitchen, next to the sink filled with dirty dishes, a discarded copy of Sporting Life, and Joycie absentmindedly eating her toast. Yet he pressed on. ‘Mr. Berry thinks I might be offered a scholarship –‘, he began, forcing himself not to look away. ‘Oh does Mr. Berry?’, interrupted Gwen, taking a sip of her tea and eying him with disgust. ‘Cyril, your son has decided he’s too good for this place. Not too good, mind, to still be costing us an arm and a leg. It’s “I’ve torn my shirt” and “I’ve lost my scarf” every other week, and who knows why he’s still allowed to buy that stupid music. He’s just like his...’ But Cyril was suddenly on his feet, his chair legs scraping roughly on the vinyl floor. His expression indecipherable, he walked towards his son, who backed out of the way, holding up his hands. Cyril pushed past him. The front door closed with a loud smack. Gwen looked away, but not quickly enough to hide a small, satisfied smile. She took another sip of tea.

1958/’Didn’t finish, did you?’  
‘No. I –‘  
‘Didn’t expect you would. Well, you’re not coming back home. Gwen won’t have it. Better get on with it, hadn’t you?’ 

1965/Morse woke up lying half on, half off the Thursdays’ living room sofa. He took in the striped wallpaper pattern, the coffee table with copies of the Radio Times neatly stacked, the clock ticking quietly on the mantlepiece. On the side table stood a very milky cup of tea, gone cold. There was a nasty taste in his mouth and his left side felt numb. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten here. Looking down, he saw blood on his shirt, a Rorschach-like stain that made him feel slightly queer. Had it also seeped through the coat he had somehow pulled over himself? He scrutinised it irritably.

It wasn’t his. Turning the coat over in his hands, and detecting a faint smell of pipe smoke, he realised, baffled, that it was the Inspector's. With a jolt, the events of the day came back to him: the DI bringing the Jaguar back under control after Morse had let it swerve erratically from side to side; the overpowering sensation that he was going to black out in the middle of the Thursdays' hallway and fall headlong into their telephone stand. To top it all, he had collapsed on their sofa like a common drunkard on a Saturday night. He even vaguely recalled the Inspector coming into the room and covering him with the coat.

Morse felt himself flush deeply at the memory. After this debacle, the Inspector would want to find himself another bagman. Jakes, perhaps. In any case not a pathetic nonstarter who couldn't stay awake and nearly got them both killed. Morse had better tell Thursday that he was resigning to spare them both an embarrassing conversation. He enjoyed working with the Inspector, but had always expected that it would end in disappointment. It was only a matter of time.

Getting up from the sofa, Morse was about to attempt to smooth down his rumpled clothes, when he realised that he was still holding Thursday's coat. He sat back down and listened to the sounds of the house for a while: Mrs. Thursday was preparing dinner, clattering with pots and pans, while Sam, probably standing in the kitchen doorway, was chatting easily with her. The DI must be in the dining room, smoking his pipe and reading the Oxford Mail, as Morse knew he was wont to do at this time of day. Morse carefully folded the Inspector's coat, put it on top of one of Mrs. Thursday's sofa cushions, and stepped out of the room. Perhaps he would resign another day.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own anything and hope not to offend anybody.
> 
> Many thanks to "Fuck Yeah, Endeavour!"'s tumblr page and the very helpful "Endeavour maths" (timeline) post.
> 
> Feedback very much appreciated as this is the first creative thing I've written since that terrible poem when I was 11. :)


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